Never Answer The Phone

I got to work and Gator called me up to the office immediately. He said in his raspy, Southern, good old boy voice, "I got a story for you which'll keep you laughing at me for months." He went on to tell me how some homeless looking dude who was some sort of roadie for The Allman Brothers and Doobie Brothers wanted to price out a dinner for Tuesday which included: 25 steaks, 45 clam chowders, 25 fish tacos, 30 shepherd's pies, open bar, and twenty percent tip. This burn out needed it on company letter head, too. God bless that little meth head that he thought O' Brien's had company letter head. Gator spent a few hours putting together this package. Long story short, the guy never came back. I spent a few minutes deleting all of Gator's hard work. I wish I could say that was the strangest thing that happened that night.

Any time someone calls the bar after a few rings it gets directed upstairs to the office. I hang out in the office so I can avoid all that transpires below. For a while there I would avoid the phone because it usually drew me into the world of the bar. I would get questions like, "Did I leave my credit card there? Is your kitchen open? When do you have live music?" and instead of answering, "I don't know. Maybe. Always." I would let it go to voicemail. I've gotten better about answering the phone and last night I seriously regretted that.

The called ID read, "Unknown Caller." If it were my home or cell phone, I wouldn't answer it, but I'm 0n the clock so what the hell. The caller asked my name and said, "I own "The Closet" (clothing store kitty corner) and my brother got locked out of my car. He needs sixty-three dollars to pay the locksmith. Once the locksmith gets the money, my brother can get the keys, open the store and pay you back." Fine. I have this thing about the neighborhood. All of us on Main Street are like a team. If we need Guinness, we call Finn McCool's, they give it to us. If Finn's needs Stella, we tell them to fuck off. It's symbiotic. In any case, I went downstairs to wait for this wizard. He shows up and from the conversation with his brother I figured I would pay the locksmith, he would get his keys and pay me back. Why would it be that easy?

Turns out, the locksmith got the key out of the BMW X5, but since the douche bag didn't have enough money and fought with the locksmith, who didn't speak English, the locksmith left with the key. So dip shit tells me that not only does he need the cash but needs a ride to Santa Monica Lock and Key. This reminds me of the saying, "No good deed goes unpunished." But it's allegedly for our neighbor across the street, so I agree. He tells me the locksmith is in the parking structure on fourth street across from a jazz club. "Harvelles?" I ask. "That's it," he replied. (It's a blues bar, but I'm not in the mood to discuss musical genres.) I pull up across the street and park. I figure that Santa Monica Lock and Key is at the bottom of the structure. Funny, living eight blocks away for fifteen years I never noticed it. Ass clown informs me that the guy is doing a "lock out" in the parking structure. "Where?" I ask. He says, "I'll ask the guy in the booth?" Now I'm wondering if he's going to ask the automatic ticket dispenser or the guy at the exit who has no idea what the fuck is going on above him. I decide to accompany cock breath across the street, because one thing I learned from my Three-card Monte days in New York, the money stays in the pocket.

So Harry Potter asks the parking attendant where this infamous "lock out" is taking place and the attendant looks at him like he just fucked his dog. I don't know why shit for brains thought that anytime something happened in any one of the six hundred parking spaces on any one of the seven floors that Zuul the gate keeper would be notified. Einstein tells me that he's gonna do a recon of the parking structure to find the Keymaster of Gozer. I waited outside. It was a pleasant evening. I watched people come and go. Then I wondered, "Is this guy coming back?" I wasn't sure how long I should wait. I was quite fascinated with the idea that I was being scammed for sixty-three dollars and/or a ride to the promenade. I was thinking that it was far too elaborate a con for a lift down the street or even for such a small amount of money, which was still in my pocket. Based on the parking meter, I had been there for twenty-one minutes. I was punished enough for my good deed. I went back to work.

On my way back, I saw that said car was still parked on Main Street; although, it was gone when I went home at three. I have yet to figure out if it was a scam. Although I'm a naturally curious person, my laziness has kept me from going across the street to The Closet and finding out the deal. I did learn two things: 1) The Allman Brothers won't be in town until the nineteenth of May, and 2) when I'm in the office, I will never answer the phone.